Volvemos al Polvo
by Demented Inu
Summary: Alfred finds victory in the coursing of his blood. Maria finds defeat in the bodies surrounding. America/Mexico.


**Chapultepec, Mexico. 1847.**

_Where the hell is she?_

Alfred's breath came heavy as he made his way up the rocky hillside near Chapultepec Castle, grinning widely even with the dirt and blood smeared on his face, his gun heavy at his side. He finally worked his way up further, up a narrow path leading to the rocky remains of the castle, gaining his footing along the uneven ground with his confidence swelling.

The battle had been so easy. Mere days, which was saying something after the awful run of some of the battles of his own Revolution. No, this had been simple, so simple it seemed mocking - the castle defended by, at most, four hundred people, not all of them even real soldiers.

The artillery barrage was mere child's play (all too appropriate, Alfred barely breaching thirteen and Maria twelve at most), the storming party ridiculously easy to flow into the place other than the short pause when they'd had to wait for the ladders. A stupid mistake, and it wouldn't be happening again in the future. He remembered climbing that ladder himself to get to the top, using his knife to stab the young Mexican soldiers through the stomach or the throat to send them toppling over, reminded of the stories Arthur would tell him of glorious battles against an invading army and how a king had driven them out.

Wanted to be that king, that glorious king from the legends of his childhood; and he was close, wasn't he? Certainly, he had the glory - his Revolution for independence had given him that much - and he had the good looks, the fame, the charm. He had everything right now, which is why he felt confident about gaining so much land from Mexico.

Part of him wondered where Pablo was as he kicked aside the dead bodies from about his ankles, but he didn't think about that too much because, in all honesty, he didn't really care. This war wasn't about the southern half of Mexico. So the majority of him just kept an eye out for a head of curly brown hair and sharp Spanish green eyes.

Finally he caught sight of her, young and small amongst the bodies of soldiers American and Mexican alike. He grinned, came closer to her and laughed that obnoxious laugh of his that set people's teeth on edge.

"Maria!" he shouted to her, then changed the name. "Mexico!" More appropriate here, not friends in the slightest after the War of Independence that Pablo had fought; Spain had told Alfred full well of what a fit Pablo was throwing over something little. "Mexico, I won!"

She didn't seem to hear him. He couldn't catch sight of her face, curtained by brown curly hair as her hands pet at the head of a boy he couldn't see properly. Her brother, maybe? He couldn't tell from this distance. He picked up some speed, grinning in pride at his own victory.

"Mexico!" he tried again, coming closer. He saw her stir now and stood straighter to appear taller. "Mexico, I won! I won and you-"

"_I know!_" Her voice rang in the lifeless expanse of land, and his smile faded as he realized that the boy in her lap wasn't her brother, wasn't even anyone he knew. Small in stature with coarse black hair and a dirty brown face, grit embedded in the creases of his palms and his legs twisted at an awkward angle. The clothes were torn, but not too badly, at least not as badly as the rest. Alfred wondered how old the kid was; he couldn't have been more than fourteen or fifteen at the oldest.

"Mexico?"

She was crying. He wasn't sure what to do about that. Despite being in the middle of a war, despite announcing his victory, part of him wanted to wrap her up in his arms and just hold her. But he didn't - he stayed rooted to his spot and watched her smooth the hair out of the boy's face. The boy was wrapped in a Mexican flag and his eyes were open, staring sightlessly into the dark sky, until she closed them with shaking hands.

"Juan..." she whispered, her fingers tangling in the dark hair until she pulled them free of the tangles. He saw her swallow, watched her fix his coat, the bloodstained flag around his body. "_D-Dios, nuestro Padre... Su poder nos lleva al nacimiento, Sus guias providencia de nuestra vida_..."

A few tears slipped free down her face, dripped from her chin to splash cleanly onto the young face. Alfred watched in silence.

"... _y por tu comando, volvemos al polvo_."

Maria pulled the flag up over the boy's face and just held the body there like it was something sacred, which if her prayer was any indication, it might as well have been. Alfred didn't understand a word of the Spanish spoken, but it sounded important - was he significant in the battle? Just this boy, ratty and broken-boned, looking more like a runaway than a soldier?

"I know," Maria whispered brokenly, and said louder, "I know. You win, _gringo_." She looked up at him and tears brimmed her eyes, looking more broken than Alfred had ever seen her.

As if on cue, the sun set fully in the distance, and the rain began to clear the bodies of their blood. The battle was over, and Alfred's heart felt anything but victory.

"And I lost."

* * *

**Historical Notes**: The Battle of Chapultepec was one of the bloodiest of the Mexican-American war. The battle commenced over the defense of Chapultepec Castle just west of Mexico City, the defense holding no more than 400 men, most of which were under eighteen, some as young as thirteen years old.

The boy mentioned in the story is Juan Escutia, who is one of the most memorable defenders of the castle in that he was one of the young Niños Héroes; as Americans literally stormed the castle, Escutia refused to surrender, instead wrapping himself in a Mexican flag and plummeting to his death.

A mural was painted in 1967 titled "Los Niños Héroes" in honor of the lives lost in the tragic battle.


End file.
